Ísafjörður, Iceland: History, Hiking and Accordions

By David Eugene Perry

Ahoy! Today we explored Ísafjörður, Iceland: a day full of hiking, history, hitherto unseen vistas and even a collection of accordions. Some days on a journey are so unexpectedly rich that, by evening, they seem as though they contained three or four days’ worth of experiences. Today was one of those. We awoke in Ísafjörður—the unofficial capital of Iceland’s spectacular Westfjords—to brilliant sunshine illuminating one of the most dramatic natural harbors in the North Atlantic. Mountains rose nearly straight from the sea, their ancient basalt faces etched by countless glacial ages, while fishing vessels gently rocked below beneath a sky that somehow managed to be both brilliantly blue and adorned with soft Arctic clouds.

Before we tackled the day’s great adventure, we wandered the charming streets of town, where old timber houses painted black with crisp white trim have stood for centuries against the unforgiving North Atlantic weather. Unlike much of Iceland, which lost many of its oldest wooden structures, Ísafjörður still preserves a remarkable collection of merchant buildings dating back to the eighteenth century, reminders of the era when Danish merchants controlled Icelandic commerce.

One of our first delightful discoveries was a brightly painted rainbow crosswalk and, nearby on a house, a vibrant mural proclaiming “Love is Love.” It was a joyful splash of color against the traditional architecture—a reminder that while this town reveres its history, it also embraces a welcoming and inclusive present. In a place where nature often dominates the conversation, this simple expression of humanity felt especially touching.

Then came the hike. Our destination was Naustahvilft, better known as “The Troll’s Seat.” Every local seems to know the legend. According to Icelandic folklore, a giant troll, hurrying home before sunrise could turn her to stone, stopped here to rest. The enormous bowl-shaped depression carved into the mountainside is said to be the imprint left where she sat, her feet dangling into the fjord below. Geologists, of course, attribute it to glacial erosion during the last Ice Age, but standing there above Ísafjörður, it was easy to prefer the troll’s version.

The trail climbed relentlessly above town, every switchback revealing another breathtaking perspective over the fjord. Soon the colorful roofs of Ísafjörður shrank below us while the surrounding mountains unfolded in every direction. The silence was profound, interrupted only by seabirds riding the updrafts and the distant sounds of fishing boats returning to harbor.

The higher we climbed, the more astonishing the views became. Looking down, the entire town seemed to rest delicately on a narrow spit of land extending into the deep blue waters. Snow still lingered in shaded gullies high above despite the warmth of the summer sun, while waterfalls traced silver ribbons down impossibly steep cliffs. It was one of those hikes where photographs barely hint at the grandeur. Every turn invited another pause simply to absorb the immensity of Iceland’s western frontier.

The climb proved pleasantly challenging—just enough to make us earn every spectacular vista. Apart from one brief slip that bruised nothing more than my pride, we returned to town tired, exhilarated and entirely intact. The celebratory beer awaiting us would prove richly deserved.

Returning happily exhausted to town, we refreshed ourselves with a beer at the LOGN Hotel and Bar, and then wandered over to one of the most fascinating museums we’ve encountered anywhere—in Iceland or anywhere.

Housed in one of the oldest surviving merchant buildings, originally constructed in 1765, the museum itself tells a story before you even step inside. Known as the Factor’s House (Faktorshús), it served as the residence of the Danish trading representative who oversaw commerce in the region. The building has been lovingly restored, allowing visitors to step directly into eighteenth- and nineteenth-century life.

Outside, another chapter of history quietly announces itself. Mounted on the building is a plaque commemorating its origins as the home of the Danish merchant factor during the era of the Danish trade monopoly. Just steps away stands the Honorary Consulate of the Kingdom of Denmark, a subtle reminder that Denmark’s connection with Iceland did not simply disappear when Iceland became a sovereign kingdom in 1918 or a republic in 1944. For centuries, Danish merchants, governors and trading agents administered commerce from buildings like this one. Today, the modern honorary consulate sits almost beside the former merchant’s residence, linking Iceland’s colonial past with its enduring friendship with Denmark.

Before entering the museum, we paused at a striking granite memorial topped by a bronze seabird. Its plaque commemorates the sailors of Arctic Convoy QP-13, who perished off Iceland’s coast on July 5, 1942. During World War II, these tranquil waters became one of the world’s most dangerous shipping lanes. The Arctic convoys carried desperately needed food, fuel, aircraft, tanks and munitions from Britain and North America to the Soviet Union through waters patrolled relentlessly by German U-boats, aircraft and surface raiders. Yet the enemy was not their only danger. In thick fog, while maneuvering to avoid submarine attack, ships of QP-13 inadvertently entered a British defensive minefield laid off Iceland’s northwest coast. Three merchant vessels were lost, scores of Allied sailors perished in the frigid North Atlantic, and the waters surrounding the Westfjords became another tragic battlefield in the Battle of the Atlantic. Standing there before the memorial, with the peaceful harbor sparkling behind it, it was difficult to imagine the terror and sacrifice that unfolded here only eighty-four years ago.

The memorial also serves as a poignant reminder that although Iceland declared neutrality, geography made neutrality impossible. Following Britain’s occupation of Iceland in May 1940—Operation Fork—Ísafjörður was transformed from a remote fishing community into an important Allied naval and aviation outpost. Flying boats patrolled the surrounding seas searching for German submarines, escort vessels sheltered in the fjord, and military personnel suddenly became a common sight in streets that had previously belonged almost exclusively to fishermen, merchants and their families.

Inside, history unfolds room by room. A beautifully recreated kitchen, complete with period stove, pantry, dining table, enamelware and vintage Bosch refrigerator, evokes the daily rhythms of Icelandic family life during the twentieth century. Looking out its small windows, one sees the harbor exactly as generations before would have seen it: fishing boats, mountains and the ever-present sea.

Elsewhere, exhibits chronicle the evolution of Iceland’s fishing industry—the foundation upon which towns like Ísafjörður were built. Detailed engineering drawings illustrate the transition from traditional sailing vessels to powered fishing boats. Charts identify dozens of species harvested from Icelandic waters, from cod and haddock to halibut, wolffish, redfish, Greenland shark, rays and even eel. Fishing wasn’t merely an occupation here; it was survival, prosperity and identity.

One exhibit proved unexpectedly quirky and delightful. The museum houses the remarkable Ásgeir S. Sigurðsson Accordion Collection, assembled over decades by one man whose passion became one of Iceland’s finest collections of the instrument. His first accordion arrived when he was just fifteen years old, and by 1990 he had begun systematically collecting examples from across Iceland and Europe.

Among the dozens on display are exquisitely crafted nineteenth-century instruments, early German and Italian accordions, elaborately decorated models and examples once played by celebrated Icelandic musicians. The accompanying exhibit traces the accordion’s ancestry all the way back to the Chinese sheng, dating roughly to 2700 BC. In 1822, German instrument maker Friedrich Buschmann developed the handoline, followed in 1829 by Austrian Cyril Demian, who refined the design and gave the world the instrument we still call the accordion today. Production flourished in Germany, especially with Matthias Hohner, and later in Castelfidardo, Italy, now affectionately known as the “Mecca of the accordion.” Who knew that one of the world’s finest accordion collections awaited us in a tiny fishing town tucked beneath Arctic mountains?

Another exhibit told a far more sobering story.

Mounted prominently on the wall hangs the original shield of the British Vice Consulate. During Britain’s wartime occupation, all Germans living in Iceland were ordered to surrender to the occupation authorities. One of them, August Lehrmann, instead fled westward into the Westfjords, where sympathetic local residents secretly hid him for nearly a year. Eventually captured in 1941, Lehrmann revealed the identities of everyone who had helped him.

The consequences rippled through this small community. Seven residents of the Westfjords were arrested and transported to Britain. Among them was Tryggvi Jóakimsson, Britain’s own Vice Consul in Ísafjörður. Although he steadfastly maintained his innocence—and historians have found no evidence that he even knew Lehrmann was hiding nearby—he nevertheless lost both his appointment and his reputation. The British removed the consular shield from his residence and carried it away to the Embassy in Reykjavík.

Remarkably, that very shield survived. Preserved by the British Embassy for decades before passing into private hands, it was donated back to the museum in 2024, where it now quietly bears witness to one of the most fascinating—and least-known—episodes of Iceland’s wartime history. Standing only a few yards from the modern Danish Honorary Consulate, it struck me that within the space of a hundred feet one can trace Iceland’s remarkable diplomatic evolution: from Danish colonial administration, to British wartime occupation, to the independent Iceland we know today.

Standing at an upstairs window, we looked back over the harbor through small wooden casements just as merchants, consuls and sailors had done for more than two centuries. Beyond lay fishing boats, colorful kayaks, distant mountains and calm Arctic water sparkling beneath the afternoon sun.

Today’s visit had it all for the “history lover” in me: a British and a Danish consulate; World War II intrigue; the Battle of the Atlantic; Arctic convoy tragedy; the evolution of one of Europe’s most beloved musical instruments; and the enduring power of the sea.

As we left, I bought a book entitled Iceland Invaded: The Allied Occupation in World War II. I have my reading for the night.Small towns like this, and lovingly, locally curated museums such as this one, tell a far richer story than any Wikipedia page can attempt.

Today on the anniversary of his birth, we celebrate the life and legacy of Rainbow Honor Walk honoree James Baldwin (August 2, 1924 – December 1, 1987).

Born in Harlem, New York, James Baldwin was one of the twentieth century’s greatest writers and public intellectuals. Through landmark works including Go Tell It on the Mountain, Giovanni’s Room, Notes of a Native Son, and The Fire Next Time, Baldwin explored race, identity, sexuality, faith, and the American experience with extraordinary honesty and eloquence.

As a Black gay man, Baldwin challenged prejudice in all its forms, becoming an enduring voice for civil rights, LGBTQ+ equality, and social justice. His words continue to inspire readers around the world to confront injustice with courage, compassion, and truth.

Read Bill Lipsky’s tribute in SF Bay Times at the link below

Rainbow Honor Walk James Baldwin: Passionate Advocate for Human Rights By Dr. Bill Lipsky

www.RainbowHonorWalk.org

Ahoy! Akureyri, Iceland

— David Eugene Perry

Ahoy! We dock in Akureyri, Iceland’s second largest city. It’s a gorgeous, clear and pleasantly chilly day.

Our walk begins along the waterfront in Oddeyri, Akureyri’s second-oldest district. Today it feels quiet and orderly, but the historical signs tell a livelier story: merchants challenging Danish trading monopolies, bakers helping organize workers, buildings repeatedly surviving fires, and a shoreline gradually transformed into streets, homes and piers. The old photographs make it easy to imagine the neighborhood when boats landed almost at the front doors and much of the lower ground was still vulnerable to tides and flooding.

Signage along the way says:

Oddeyri District

Oddeyri is Akureyri’s second oldest district. The site was only used for parliamentary meetings from early 14th century until 1551 when two warships arrived to quell a rising led by the Roman Catholic bishop, Jón Arason, of Hólar, who had, however, been executed the year before. No battle ensued, but his possessions were confiscated and given to the king and his heirs.

In 1874 the 1000 year anniversary of the settlement of Iceland was celebrated on Oddeyri. Nothing was built there due to lack of drinking water and flooding risks from Glerá River. However, in 1866, the Danish authorities agreed to include Oddeyri in the township of Akureyri.

The first house, Lundur, was built in 1858. A similar house of the same name stands at Eiðsvallagata 14. After 1870 building began in earnest with the establishment of Gránufélag, Akureyri’s first commercial company.

Around 1900 Akureyri had 10 streets, 5 of which were on Oddeyri: Strandgata, Glerárgata, Lundargata, Norðurgata and Grundargata.

A second sign explains the commercial struggle that helped shape the district:

Fight against Monopoly

There was little incentive to build on Oddeyri — no work and far from the centre of Akureyri. No roads were built until around 1892, so communications were difficult in inclement weather. However, in 1869, the coming of the Icelandic commercial enterprise, Gránufélag, saw Oddeyri’s inclusion into Akureyri township. The company’s boat, Grána, transported goods to and from Iceland.

Two years later the company set up a store in the building Lundur, sparking fierce competition with Danish tradesmen who had held a monopoly over Akureyri’s commercial business. But Gránufélag did not require all their land and sold off small pieces to the townspeople. Some for pasture, others for house building.

By the shore were landing places for shark fishers, and later herring boats. Piers sprang up and, on higher ground, vessels were built. From the early 20th century and up to WWII refuse was disposed of below and to the north of Gránufélag’s premises. Ash and other waste was thrown into a very large tidal pool, long gone to make way for streets and houses.

The next sign turns from merchants to bakers and labor organizers:

Bakers & Union Builders

In 1900 only 10 street names were registered for the whole town, but in 1904, when Oddeyri street names were added, the overall number increased significantly. Hríseyjargata was on the map although it only had one building and much of the proposed road was under the tidal pool. Sea water is still a problem and pumps are needed in many cellars of Lower Oddeyri properties.

The crossroads at Hríseyjargata and Strandgata became “Baker’s Corner” when Strandgata 41 was built in 1901 specially to house a bakery. The baker, Olgeir Júlíusson, was one of the first to establish a workers’ union in Akureyri and his son, Einar Olgeirsson, born 1902, became a union leader and member of Parliament.

Strandgata 39, Karlshús, is well known for surviving in spite of going on fire six times. There was also a bakery in the four-storey building next door, Strandgata 37, the only house built according to the town plan of 1927.

Another nearby sign describes Oddeyri as a center of commerce, entertainment and wartime activity:

Hub of Activity

In 1900, Grundargata was a mere track. At its corner stood Hotel Oddeyri, seen to the left. On the founder’s death in 1898 his widow took over, expanding the business by 50%. The hotel was destroyed by fire in 1908 and she moved the business to Strandgata 1.

The site stood vacant until 1924, when a furniture maker constructed a new building, with a workshop behind it. Later, the workshop was taken over by the TV company Samver, which in 2003 became part of the town television network.

Below the crossroads, in Havsteenshús, Strandgata 35, lived Jakob V. Havsteen, known as “The King of Oddeyri,” who was a harpoon gunner and merchant. Here, behind the house, sheep were brought for slaughter.

In 1922 the first state liquor store in Akureyri was opened in the cellar. During WWII the house was let to British troops and was known as “The Norwegian House,” as it was mostly used as a leisure centre for Norwegian soldiers. Since the war, the building has been used as residential housing.

One tiny memorial stops us in our tracks. It reads, “Here rests BSO — Akureyri’s cultural mouse, 1956–2026.” Icelandic humor apparently extends even to gravestones for beloved local mascots.

We continue into the center of town and Ráðhústorg, the main square. This was once Akureyri’s great gathering place: the spot for shops, cinemas, buses, celebrations, political meetings and, naturally, the latest gossip.

The signage here says:

Main Square

You are standing in Ráðhústorg Square where the heart of the town beats. Although the town hall was not built here — its intended site was taken over by the National Bank — the square was always bustling with life and activity, being surrounded by financial institutions, shops, cinemas and taxi stations.

Here you bought papers, magazines and hot dogs from street vendors and filled your car with petrol. This is where mass meetings assembled and sports events were arranged. Here the terminal for the Reykjavík bus used to be, where people came to meet friends and relatives arriving from the capital — or pick up the latest gossip.

It was in Ráðhústorg that people rejoiced in the establishment of the Republic of Iceland, 17 June 1944 — still the date on which students from the local college celebrate their graduation by marching through the square.

Akureyri has a wonderfully playful streak. Brightly colored shoes hang from wires outside an old building, while a pointed red roof rises behind them. Farther downhill, the compact blue-and-white expedition ship Ocean Victory fills the end of the street. Its unusual inverted bow gives it the look of a vessel designed for serious water rather than cocktail-hour cruising. It carries fewer than 200 passengers and is equipped for expedition travel, including polar itineraries and Zodiac landings.

Then we climb.

At the top of Akureyri’s long staircase stands Akureyrarkirkja, the city’s great Lutheran church. Its tall, symmetrical towers and severe geometric façade look almost theatrical against the gray sky. From the hill, the view opens over the town and Eyjafjörður, with cruise ships resting below and long green mountainsides stretching beyond the water.

Those mountains look soft from a distance, almost as though green fabric has been draped over dark rock. The landscape was built by volcanic activity and then carved and widened by Ice Age glaciers. Fire made the land; ice sculpted it; moss, grass and streams softened the result.

Above town, a Progress Pride flag snaps in the wind. Nearby, another sign reveals an unexpected bit of Icelandic history.

Signage along the way says:

At the scene of the first television in Iceland

Between 1934 and 1936 remarkable experiments were conducted at Sjónarhæð, the house at the bottom of the hill before us. Two communication enthusiasts received television transmissions from the Crystal Palace Studios in London with equipment they had partially created themselves. The two men were an Englishman, Fredrik Livingstone Hogg, an engineer, and his apprentice, 22-year-old Grímur Sigurðsson, who later became a radio mechanic. At the time, few Icelanders had even heard about television and most were still absorbing the magic of radio that had only recently been introduced.

The transmissions received by these two men were the first in Iceland and made Grímur Sigurðsson the first Icelander ever to watch television. Both were experimenting during TV’s absolute infancy in the world. In order to do so they borrowed a few devices from the UK but others they built themselves. The antenna they needed to receive these broadcasts from London was already present in Akureyri, because a few years earlier the missionary Arthur Cook and his Christian Sjónarhæð Congregation had pioneered radio broadcasting in Iceland by setting up a missionary radio station at Sjónarhæð. Fredrik Livingstone Hogg had been the main technical person in that endeavour.

This radio station was one of the two first in Iceland operated before the creation of the state Broadcasting Service, RÚV. RÚV had the broadcasting monopoly from 1930–1986. Both of these stations were closed down before the state radio began operation.

At the beginning of the 1930s in London, some experiments were being done on TV transmissions over long distances. These experiments were part of an international competition to see which technology would win out in the television business. It was especially important to see which technology the BBC would choose for its broadcasts. The broadcasts that were received in Akureyri were based on “mechanical television technology,” pioneered by the Scottish inventor John L. Baird, who conducted experimental transmissions from Crystal Palace. This technology ultimately lost out in the competition and, after a major fire at Crystal Palace Studios in 1936, the broadcasts were ceased.

In a 1980 radio interview, Grímur Sigurðsson talked about the television project with Hogg. He said the technology they used had been 30-line technology, which means that the screen and the images they were viewing were small, probably similar to today’s cell phone screen. Transmissions were sent four nights a week for about an hour each, between 22:00 and 23:00. Grímur did not go into detail about what they were watching but said that sometimes the pictures were very clear. He particularly recalled watching a dancing woman who had a large ring on one of her fingers that they saw very clearly.

The canyon below is called Barðsgil. It is located above the Sjónarhæð House, and was important in the pioneering radio and television work in Iceland. The antenna towers that were built for radio were later used for television broadcasts and were about 35 metres high, located on each side on the top of the canyon. Connected to the antenna towers was an extensive web of copper wires that was buried in the ground and served as the ground connection. The copper is presumably still buried here under the trees and vegetation that has grown up in the canyon over the last eight decades.

The images were small and unreliable, but sometimes astonishingly clear—an early flicker of the future arriving in northern Iceland.

We pass the statue of “The Outlaw,” a rugged figure carrying a woman while a dog follows at his side, and then encounter one of Akureyri’s better student traditions. A path leading downhill from the junior college became known as the “Road to Destruction,” because students used it on their way to dances and nights out. Walk uphill, however, and it becomes the “Road to Education.” The town has managed to turn topography into a moral lesson.

The Akureyri Botanical Garden is a complete surprise. Just below the Arctic Circle, it is lush with trees, fountains and flowers from around the world. Himalayan blue poppies glow among pink blossoms, and the whole garden feels sheltered and extravagant, like a green secret hidden above the fjord. A memorial marks its founding in 1912.

Nearby stands the old junior-college building, constructed in 1904 in the decorative Swiss style. We also notice several beautifully maintained homes dated 1926 and 1928—substantial, almost mansion-like houses from a period when Akureyri was growing in confidence and prosperity.

Our next stop is St. Peter’s Catholic Church, a modest white wooden building trimmed in red. Compared with the monumental Lutheran church, it feels intimate and domestic. Inside are statues of Mary, the Christ Child and Saint Anthony, votive candles and an enormous wooden rosary. Nuns are preparing for Mass; they appear to be Carmelite sisters rather than Benedictines. The building began life as a house and was acquired for Catholic use in the early 1950s.

Back near the water, we read about Barðsnef, once considered as a possible new town center, and pass Sigling, Jón Gunnar Árnason’s dramatic steel sculpture. Its sweeping shapes suggest a ship, bird, sail and movement all at once. Set against the fjord, it seems less like a fixed monument than something poised to take flight.

The harbor has grown busier by the time we return. Large cruise ships sit across the water, while Ocean Victory remains alongside the quay, compact and purposeful beside them. Akureyri’s mountains surround the scene like the walls of an enormous green amphitheater.

And after all that climbing, history, churches, ships and botany, we finish exactly as sensible travelers should: with a beer at Akureyri Backpackers.

Skál!

Seyðisfjörður: Iceland’s Rainbow Gateway to Europe

— David Eugene Perry

Ahoy! This morning we sailed into the misty splendour of Seyðisfjörður beneath an arch of rainbows that seemed to travel with us as Nieuw Statendam glided into one of Iceland’s most spectacular fjords. All around us, waterfalls streaked down the steep mountainsides in shimmering silver ribbons, disappearing into the emerald valley below. The good ship anchored just offshore from this tiny community of some 600 souls, so we tendered ashore for an afternoon’s explore.

Naturally, our first stop was Gufufoss, the largest waterfall near town and a pleasant uphill walk from the dock. Fed by glacial streams tumbling from the surrounding mountains, the broad cascade roared with the recent rains, while every turn in the path offered another breathtaking view back across the fjord toward our ship lying serenely at anchor.

On the walk back into town, we had one of those wonderfully unexpected cruise moments. Fellow passenger Mary stopped to tell me that she and her husband, Sharkey, had thoroughly enjoyed my lecture on the Titanic. That delighted me all the more when Mary explained that she had served in the British Merchant Navy while Sharkey had spent his career in the Royal Navy.

Gosh—I do love ship people.

Mary then regaled us with stories of sailing aboard MV Balmoral during the 2012 Titanic Centenary Memorial Cruise, which retraced the famous voyage across the North Atlantic to the site where the great liner rests today. With impeccable British timing, she smiled and quipped, “Of course… it wasn’t a reenactment.”

We all burst out laughing.

Alfredo and I concluded our chilly wander with steaming drinks and delicious homemade cake at the cozy Aldan Café, watching wisps of cloud drift across the mountains before catching our tender back to the ship.

This was our first Icelandic port, and naturally I wanted to learn more about this remarkable little town.

Nestled at the head of a deep fjord on Iceland’s rugged east coast, Seyðisfjörður is widely regarded as one of the country’s most beautiful villages. Its colorful nineteenth-century Norwegian timber houses recall the prosperous era when Norwegian merchants and fishermen helped shape the community, while today many of those lovingly restored buildings house galleries, artists’ studios, cafés, bookstores, and small boutiques. Despite its tiny population, the village has become one of Iceland’s most vibrant artistic communities, hosting music festivals and cultural events that draw visitors from around the world.

Towering mountains rise almost straight from the sea, their slopes laced with dozens of waterfalls fed by snowfields and glaciers above. During summer, wildflowers carpet the valley and daylight seems almost endless. In winter, heavy snows transform the landscape into something almost otherworldly. It is easy to understand why filmmakers, photographers, and painters are continually drawn here.

One of the town’s best-known landmarks is its charming blue church, built in 1922, reached by Iceland’s famous rainbow-painted street—a colorful symbol of the community’s welcoming spirit. Visitors also come for hiking, kayaking, birdwatching, horseback riding, and simply soaking in the extraordinary scenery.

Despite its diminutive size, Seyðisfjörður occupies an outsized place in Iceland’s transportation history. It is the home of the country’s only passenger ferry connection to mainland Europe. Operated by Smyril Line, the ferry MS Norröna sails weekly between Seyðisfjörður and Tórshavn in the Faroe Islands before continuing to Hirtshals, Denmark. The crossing takes roughly two days and two nights, carrying passengers, automobiles, camper vans, motorcycles, freight, and supplies. It is one of Europe’s last great ocean ferry journeys, complete with comfortable cabins, restaurants, lounges, observation decks, and the unique pleasure of watching the North Atlantic unfold slowly around you rather than flying over it in a few hours.

Long before the ferry era, Seyðisfjörður served as Iceland’s principal eastern gateway to Europe. In 1906, the nation’s first submarine telegraph cable landed here, linking Iceland directly with Scotland and, for the first time, providing rapid communication with the rest of Europe. Overnight, this tiny village became Iceland’s communications lifeline to the outside world.

Its strategic location also gave Seyðisfjörður an important role during the Second World War. Following Britain’s occupation of Iceland in 1940 to prevent the Nazis from taking it —later joined by American forces in 1941 — the fjord became a valuable Allied anchorage and supply base supporting the vital North Atlantic convoy routes. Naval vessels regularly sheltered in its deep, protected waters, while fuel depots and military facilities were established ashore to support convoy operations that helped keep Britain supplied throughout the war.

One of the most visible reminders of those years still lies beneath the surface of the fjord. Resting on the seabed is the wreck of the British oil tanker SS El Grillo. On February 10, 1944, German aircraft attacked the tanker while she lay at anchor supplying Allied naval vessels. Badly damaged and burning, El Grillo was deliberately scuttled to prevent an explosion from threatening the town and nearby ships. Today, the remarkably well-preserved wreck has become one of Iceland’s premier dive sites, attracting experienced scuba divers from around the world.

The war also brought tragedy to the village itself. In 1944, a catastrophic explosion aboard a British ammunition ship devastated much of Seyðisfjörður’s waterfront, killing both sailors and civilians. Although the town rebuilt after the war, those dramatic years remain an important chapter in its history.

Given Iceland’s population of only about 400,000 people, it is perhaps surprising that Sweden maintains one of only two honorary Swedish consulates in the entire country here in Seyðisfjörður. The other is, naturally, in Reykjavík. The consulate reflects this little port’s longstanding importance as Iceland’s eastern gateway to Scandinavia and continental Europe, maintaining close commercial and maritime ties across the North Atlantic for well over a century.

As we near the tender landing for our return to the ship, we pass a tableaux about the disastrous landslides that hit the town in 2020. Then, we encountered signage about the wreck of the El Grillo and one of its guns, now mounted on the shore.

One panel describes “The Big Landslide That Changed Everything.” On December 18, 2020, after an unprecedented five days of rain that nearly equaled Reykjavík’s average annual precipitation, a gigantic landslide swept through Seyðisfjörður. The slide destroyed 13 houses and damaged others, many dating from around 1900 and possessing significant cultural and historical value. The town museum suffered considerable losses, with much of its buildings destroyed, although some collections were salvaged. The sign notes that the damage to Icelandic cultural heritage was among the most significant ever experienced in the country. Although the landslide itself lasted only minutes, smaller slides had preceded it for days, the town’s infrastructure was overwhelmed, and emergency responders worked almost continuously. After the disaster, the entire town was evacuated for several days. Many residents lost their homes, businesses disappeared, some people could never return because of the continuing danger, and, as the exhibit poignantly concludes, “The sense of security for most inhabitants was profoundly shaken.”

Nearby stands a four-inch Garrett quick-firing naval gun, salvaged from the British tanker SS El Grillo. The plaque reads:

“A four inches GARRETT CANNON from the tankship EL GRILLO which was sunk (torpedoed) by German planes the 10th of February 1944. The ship is still there underseas.”

Additional signage explains that these quick-firing guns, each weighing about 610 kilograms (1,345 pounds), were originally manufactured for the British Royal Navy in the late nineteenth century and later modified for wartime service. During the war, three German aircraft attacked and heavily damaged El Grillo. The wreck still rests on the bottom of the fjord, and efforts to seal the wreck and pump out leaking oil have continued over the years.

Another panel offers a sobering reminder that the war touched the people of Seyðisfjörður as well:

“The war also brought danger. German aircraft frequently flew over the fjord, and air raid sirens were a regular occurrence. In the autumn of 1942, a bombing raid injured four young boys, and one of them lost his leg.”

It is difficult to imagine such a peaceful, picturesque harbor echoing with air-raid sirens and the sound of enemy aircraft overhead. Yet those reminders—together with the rainbows, waterfalls, colorful houses, and the welcoming smiles of today’s Seyðisfjörður—are what make this extraordinary little town so memorable.

Why is it Called a Ship’s Bridge?

— David Eugene Perry

Ahoy! As we all know, a ship is steered from “the bridge.” The term has become synonymous with authority and command. However, have you ever wondered why-when-and-how that term came into use? Take a read below!

The answer takes us back to the earliest days of steam-powered ships.

Traditional sailing ships were commanded and steered from the stern, where the ship’s wheel was located close to the rudder. But during the early 19th century, a revolutionary new type of vessel appeared: the paddle steamer.

These ships were propelled by enormous paddle wheels mounted on either side of the hull. The wheels were enclosed inside projecting structures known as “paddle boxes.” Shipbuilders soon constructed a raised walkway extending across the vessel from one paddle box to the other.

Because it physically connected—or “bridged”—the two sides of the ship, the walkway became known quite literally as the “bridge.”

The elevated position offered the captain a much better view forward, as well as a clear view over both sides of the vessel. This was particularly useful when navigating narrow channels, approaching docks or maneuvering inside crowded harbors. Standing forward of the funnel also helped the captain escape some of the smoke, sails and rigging that could obstruct visibility from the stern.

At first, however, the captain did not necessarily steer the ship from the bridge. The wheel often remained at the stern, close to the rudder and its complicated system of ropes, chains and pulleys. From his position on the bridge, the captain issued commands to the helmsman—sometimes by shouting, using a speaking trumpet or communicating through a voice pipe.

One particularly clear surviving example is a contemporary model of the Thames paddle steamer William, built in 1860 and now held by the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich. It shows the vessel’s two paddle boxes connected by a narrow raised walkway. The museum describes this as an early form of the bridge, from which the master gave orders to the helmsman stationed at the wheel in the stern.

Beginning in the 1840s, the more efficient screw propeller began replacing paddle wheels, especially aboard warships and large ocean-going vessels. Nevertheless, the raised command platform proved so useful that shipbuilders retained it—even after there were no longer paddle boxes for it to connect.

As steering technology improved, mechanical, steam-assisted and eventually hydraulic systems allowed the wheel itself to be moved forward. The captain, navigating officers and helmsman could finally be stationed together. The open platform gradually acquired a protected wheelhouse and was eventually incorporated into the ship’s superstructure.

There was no single moment when the original paddle-box bridge disappeared. The transition took place throughout the second half of the 19th century. By approximately 1900, the traditional walkway spanning two paddle boxes had largely vanished from newly built ocean-going ships, although similar open bridges continued aboard paddle ferries, riverboats and pleasure steamers.

The term, however, remained.

Today, the bridge is the sophisticated command-and-control center of a vessel. From there, the captain and officers oversee navigation, communications, propulsion, weather conditions and the ship’s safe operation. Modern bridges bear little physical resemblance to those exposed walkways perched above the paddle wheels—but their familiar name preserves that remarkable piece of maritime history.

One famous vessel associated with this transitional period was Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s extraordinary Great Eastern, launched in 1858. At approximately 692 feet long, she was the largest ship the world had yet seen. She possessed two enormous 56-foot paddle wheels—but she also had a screw propeller and auxiliary sails, employing all three principal forms of maritime propulsion then available.

The Great Eastern therefore represented both the culmination of the great paddle-steamer era and the technological future that would soon make ocean-going paddle wheels obsolete.

Today, paddle wheels survive primarily aboard historic vessels, excursion boats and faithful replicas. But every time a captain steps onto the bridge of a modern ship—including the bridge aboard our own Holland America Line vessel—we are using a term born aboard those pioneering paddle steamers nearly two centuries ago.

Ahoy—and now you know! Below is an especially good article from the U.S Naval Institute Magazine about the evolution of steering a ship at sea

https://www.usni.org/magazines/naval-history-magazine/2020/october/steering-wheel?utm_source=chatgpt.com